Angel Bones: The Illadvised Crossover
by AQLM
Summary: Seely Booth is not what he seems. Sure, he's still a handsome sniper with a knack for seeming unintelligent, but he holds a dark secret: he's the vampire Angel. When his new life in DC unexpectedly collides with his old life in CA, he must figure out how to tell his team of science-only friends that he is a creature of myth! Written with love on the occasion of Kestre's engagement.
1. Chapter 1

"Ninety-eight...ninety-nine..."

The pen arced smoothly through the air and touched down with a satisfying "tok" on the trunk of the police car, then bounced its lazy return towards Booth's waiting hand. He caught the pen, weaved it expertly through his fingers, then sent it flying again.

"One hundrreeddd," he crowed with mock fanfare. The car's owner looked up from her clipboard to cast a scrunch-eyed glare towards the agent, who continued to ignore her as he started another pass.

"Booth," came the exclamation behind him.

Startled, he bobbled the pen and flung it with untimely force. It deflected off to the side and grazed the cheek of a nearby uniform, who flinched away with a garbled profanity. Booth clenched his mouth into an embarrassed grin, winced a quick apology, and turned around to face his partner.

"Booth. I thought I told you to meet me at the Jeffersonian." The mildly annoyed face of Dr. Temperance Brennan frowned at him from under a god-knows-what-smeared face mask. A spattering of goo adorned her dark blue jumpsuit and the gloved hands on her hips were covered with an unidentifiable, and likely horrible smelling, brown glop. Behind her, a similarly-attired Doctor Hodgins stumbled through the matted grass, though he wore an expression of unbridled glee as he cooed towards some crucial and crawling fauna in a specimen jar.

Booth tried to reply, but he was cut off by the young man thrusting the black-capped container at him. Inside, a squadron of agitated red and black dots squirmed up the sides. "Hister quadrimaculatus," said the doctor with a glimmer of awe. "Hister carrion beetles. These babies usually shows up when the corpse is ju..."

"Great, great. I'm sure that'll be a big help." Booth clapped Hodgins on the back and, in doing so, pushed him towards the Jeffersonian van, where some nameless intern was waiting to lavish the appropriate amount of attention on the find. "Bones, listen-"

"No, Booth," Dr. Brennan gestured with one hand, flipping a particle of blop off to the side. "I...need you at the Jeffersonian." Her voice took on the edge that indicated a minor-scale meltdown was less than two clicks away. Her nostrils flared and she breathed a layer of mist on the inside of her face shield.

He changed his tactic. "I figured I'd ride back with you." He pantomimed a relaxed driving pose, bobbing his head back and forth like he was listening to a pop anthem. "You know: you, me, talking about the case, just like we do all the time."

She put the free hand on the edge of her mask. "Yes, well, that won't be for several hours and I need you to get me a warrant in case we find something after we bring in the jackhammers."

Booth looked puzzled. "The...jackhammers? Bones, this is a graveyard. You brought the backhoe in a half hour ago. That's enough, right?"

"Yes, well, that's what I thought, but..." She turned around and walked back down the hill. He half-sprinted after her, eying the tamped-down and browning grass with some relief. His shoes stood a chance of being wearable after this case, unlike his usual business wear forays into swampland and sewers. They walked in silent tandem through the run-down cemetery, side-stepping time-worn headstones, the thin stone monuments now chipped and spattered with lichen.

They'd gotten a call about unsolved murder case involving a federal court judge back in the late 70's. The Jeffersonian had been wrangled in with the FBI to see if any new evidence could be gathered from the untimely departed to finally administer justice. Booth privately suspected this was just a spectacular attempt at career revival by someone who would otherwise be stuck in the annals of prosecutorial history, but no one was asking him.

They reached the exhumation site in time to see the backhoe take out a few headstones as the driver made unusual haste getting away. A nearby grave settled slightly underneath the tread marks, prompting a small avalanche of dirt to collapse around it.

"Oh come on," cried Booth after the retreating machinery. "Show some respect for the dead."

"The dead don't care, Booth," said Bones patiently. "Really, the strange preoccupation with respect for the remains is quite inappropriate. After all, there's nothing respectful about pulling out a corpse's organs, filling it with formaldehyde, and putting makeup on it. It would be," she took in a breath, "more respectful to let it decompose naturally."

"Bones, can we not talk about this right now?" He shifted uncomfortably in his suit at the mention of the naturalness of death. There really was nothing natural about death no matter how many times he'd stared at it. "You said something about jackhammers."

The dig was surrounded by a flapping white canvas tent, blocking the view of a cluster of bored-looking journalists behind an obligatory and completely redundant strip of police tape. A few cameras snapped pictures of the duo as they approached the site, though a flash of Booth's badge kept any from asking questions.

They ducked in and Bones gestured into the hole. Instead of the expected coffin, there was a partially rotted corpse draped across what looked like a massive slab of concrete. Bones grabbed one of the floodlights and aimed it towards the gravesite, illuminating the grisly site.

"Wait, is that the judge?" Booth tried to look closely without actually moving any part of himself towards the scene.

"I can't determine that," she chided Booth, then held up a hand. "But, based on style of dress, amount of decomposition, the width of the pelvis and the prominent brow ridges," she pulled a pen out of her pocket and gestured into the pit. "It suggests that this is a male buried in the last fifty years." She smiled proudly. "I knew the question and I even extrapolated for you."

Booth pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. A few of the histerine or whatever beetles seemed to be flying around his head. "That's great, Bones. I appreciate it." Small steps, he thought. "But how did he end up out of his coffin and what the hell is this brick doing down here?"

"I have not yet determined this," her smile was replaced by familiar annoyance at his asking guesswork questions. "That's why I need a jackhammer. We're going to bring this all back to the Jeffersonian."

"Right, right. Hey," his face brightened. "Wasn't the judge working on some sort of mob stuff? Maybe the person who killed him actually buried someone else down here, then used the judge's death to cover it." He clapped his hands. "Best place to bury a body is under a body. Works great."

"Mmm, no. The best place to bury a body would involve it being completely unfindable. This body," she gestured again, "is obviously found. And besides..."

Bones tilted the lamp down and then hopped into the hole, crouching next to the remains. "The concrete looks far older than fifty years. And there seems to be," her voice became muffled as she brushed some dirt away from her feet, "some sort of marking on it. I don't recognize the particulars, but it has some features that I've seen in 15th century monastic tomes on funeral rites. I need to study it more closely."

Booth swiveled the light and allowed himself a generous fifteen degree waist bend, bringing him as close as he was comfortable to the active decay. When she moved aside her arm, he caught a full glimpse of the uncovered carving. He stumbled back out of the tent, tripping over the mound of displaced dirt and landing hard on a tombstone. A light storm of photography flashes surrounded him, but he screened them out as he squinted his eyes shut and tried to slow his pulse.

"Booth? Booth?" Bones emerged from the tent. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Booth didn't answer. He recognized the carving. It wasn't 15th century; it was 11th, and certainly not relating to funerals...at least, not as she meant it. It was the daywalker's sigil, the mysterious sign borne only by those vampires who chose to live as part of humanity. Booth knew it well: it was emblazoned on the brilliant green ring he clenched tightly on his right hand, the very item that let him sit here, panting in panic under a brilliant autumn sun, instead of dissolving into damned ash.

Suddenly, that conversation he'd been meaning to have with Bones was all the more pressing. Even more so, the figured, than jackhammers.

Catchy remix of the Angel and Bones theme


	2. Chapter 2

Sprawled unceremoniously on the final resting place of some beloved father or doting mother, Booth evaluated his situation. He felt nothing that signaled the presence of another vampire; no twinge at the back of his skull or a colored thrum that tended to pulse uncomfortably through his consciousness.

He'd received no warning, corporeal or intangible, that someone was coming for him or even that a member of his exsanguination-fond kind was in town…well, aside from the handful of covens that held unreasonable sway over the governing of the country. He'd extracted himself from the daily whirlwind of demonic intrigue and planetary rescue. Los Angeles was no longer trapped in a hell dimension and, even if it were to return through some mechanism of the Senior Partners, there was no reason for him to care. That responsibility, with its terrible consequences and soul-expanding highs, had been passed to those not so tired of the whole thing.

No, the only sensations he was feeling were a flood of panic and a dull, throbbing ache in his posterior that would become embarrassing to treat in the short term. The sigil was an unexpected development. He hated those. They almost never ended in an outcome that he didn't need to drink away in the comfort of his own bathtub. This needed a full-out investigation that he couldn't do right now. Okay, distraction techniques were needed pronto.

"Booth?" Bones was standing over him, her pale face scrunched with worry, blue-grey eyes cast down at him with a glimmer of fear at the corners. "Are you injured?" She extended a thin arm, which he didn't take.

Instead, he emitted a strangled, "We can't dig that up." Yes, that was exactly the argument that would not dissuade his insatiably-curious partner.

"But why not?" Sure enough, she slightly cocked one eyebrow, regarding him warily.

He tried again, but all that came out was, "We just…can't."

Now he saw her face transform into a deeply-suspicious frown. For him to be even vaguely interested in **not** picking up evidence, well for something other than laziness or impracticality, was profoundly out of character. Okay, she needed to be told the real reason…but here? In public?

She withdrew her arm, bent down, and looked into his eyes, waving a finger back and forth. He swatted her hand away, which only meant that she went into her pocket and withdrew a metallic blue penlight. With uncommonly fast reflexes, she went for his eyelids and attempted to shine the tiny light directly into his protesting pupils. He again flailed his arms half-heartedly in an attempt to halt the neurological exam.

"Bones, stop that, okay? I'm fine." The press behind him had begun snapping not-so-surreptitious photos of his interactions with the doctor.

"No, you're clearly not fine." She stood up, replaced her hands on her waist, and looked down at him with a face not out of place at the head of a misbehaving kindergarten classroom. "You're being more irrational than usual. It could be a sign of the tumor."

Booth grappled with a nearby slab of granite and pushed himself to standing. He cleared his throat and smoothed the bumps out of his tie. "It's not the tumor, Bones. It's…" He fumbled for the right words, still trying to craft a plausible reason on the fly. "There could be something under there from that guy. You know, the Gorgonzola."

"The Gormogon," she chided him. "You know I hate it when you pretend not to know his name."

"Right, him," he pressed on. "You said it yourself that the marking was out of place. Maybe it's a marking of another skeleton or some lost relic. Don't you need to research it first before attacking it with a jackhammer?"

He watched her pale blue eyes scan his face. He tried a wry smile but it felt as forced as his excuses. She pursed her lips and cast her gaze down towards a bare patch on the lawn, looking profoundly uncomfortable with the thought she was forming.

"Of course. I'll…consult with someone in the antiquities department to make sure that we're not missing anything. Thank you for thinking about the potential significance."

He couldn't make out whether this was sarcasm or part of the elaborate lie he was forcing her to accept. "Bones, lis-"

"No, Booth, it's okay." She looked up at him, put her hand lightly on his wrist, and gave him a slim smile across her perfect features. "You obviously have very good reasons for whatever this is. I trust you. Meanwhile, let's get the judge back to the Jeffersonian."

She released him from her cool touch and strode purposefully up the hill, calling out to the techs to bring everything nearby to the Jeffersonian. Booth stood there for a moment, rubbing his wrist thoughtfully. Her trust, he thought ruefully, which he was going to shatter in the next few hours. He pulled out his phone, dialed a disused number, and had an undesired conversation with a decidedly unsavory contact. He closed the phone and nearly threw it into the pit beneath the tent before realizing that coating his electronics with corpse gunk was going to void the warrantee.


	3. Chapter 3

Booth rode back to the Jeffersonian alone, consumed with an uncomfortable mixture of hunger and worry. The worry was the more aggravating part. It made him feel old and powerless. Worrying wasn't what guys did, he berated himself. It was too feminine, maybe? Then he tossed the term out of his mind as he imagined all the strong women in his life taking turns at him in a way that was decidedly un-sexy. So no, not feminine, but in no position to do something besides plan ineffectively, then psyche himself. Maybe he needed food before he could think clearly.

He abandoned the SUV with two wheels up on the curb in front of the diner. A handful of pigeons and pedestrians squawked out of his way as he hopped out, slammed the door behind him and put on his most impressive mirrored sunglasses. Sometimes, playing the part of he glowering agent, regulation black suit and sulky attitude, made him feel like an untouchable badass. Today, it mostly felt ironic, especially since he could sense the barely-visible dirt and grass stain smeared across his ass. Nothing contradicted the appearance of togetherness than a butt-stain.

He stormed into the diner and sat down on one of the bar stools with a half spin. The cracked vinyl emitted a gasp of air and brutalized stuffing through its weathered surface, more or less mirroring his current mood. He pretended to take a glance at a laminated menu whose listings had not changed in a four presidential elections, not that you could see them too well for the running ink and fine coat of grime, then tossed it back in the crack between the napkin holder and overflowing sugar bowl. He ruffled his hands through his hair a few times, then clasped his hands under his chin, waiting for a server.

A swarthy, grease-spattered man gave him a wave of a bushy, grey-streaked eyebrow above the metal counter that divided the dining area from the garden of unspeakable foods in the kitchen. Booth half-saw him and gave him a fitting half-wave. A voice cut through the din of the short-order cooks. "Booth. How's the head?" A gloved finger poked hair that was styled into a comb-over beneath a shredded hairnet.

"Fine, thanks." He flashed a weak smile. "What's good?"

"Nothing, as usual," he chortled with inappropriate humor. "Let me make you a special cheeseburger. Extra everything with a side of deep-fried."

Booth idly chatted about sports with a frazzled-looking waitress who provided him with equally mediocre helpings of conversation and a thin black liquid masquerading as coffee. He was uncharacteristically relieved when she was dragged away by the usual demanding customers, leaving him to his thoughts. Specifically, how the hell was he going to convince a lab full of scientists that he was a powerful creature of myth whose experiences were going to shake them to the very core. Or, you know, totally freak them out. Or have him end up behind plexiglass, being shot with lasers or x-rayed or something like that.

The dish of floppy, greasy food arrived to disrupt his meditations on being a blood-sucking lab rat. He doused the whole plate with ketchup, navigated the oozing burger to his face, and was promptly interrupted.

"Booth. Good, good. I had hoped I'd find you."

The fresh-faced and annoyingly perky psychologist sat down beside him and helped himself to a fry before leaning forward. In a conspiratorial whisper, he stated "I heard about the cemetery."

Booth sighed and put down his burger, mopped his hands up with a napkin, and turned towards the doctor. The younger man almost quivered with nervous excitement. He reminded Booth of the puppy he'd gotten for Parker before his then-girlfriend objected to being the sole caretaker of yet another needy, pooping creature. The way the dog cavorted and begged for attention, dancing around their heels in a furry ball that craved constant stimulation, was surprisingly similar to the interaction of Dr. Sweets with the rest of the lab. With far, far less body hair. It was a bit pathetic, but he remembered Gordon Gordon's gentle admonishment and verbally petted the puppy.

"Did Bones send you," he said with a little frustration. "I'm fine, seriously."

"Mmhmm. Mhmm. She said something about your sudden interest in archeology. Booth, you and I know that you don't view the past as something valuable. You're all about the future, planning, honor." He flashed a freckled grin. "You know, this may represent an evolution, so to speak, in your relationship with Dr. Brennan. Maybe you're finally accepting…"

"No, it's not that." The younger man's face flickered downward and he wilted slightly in his grey pinstripe suit, disappearing like a skulking teen behind its too-large collar. Booth floundered a bit, then regained his resolve.

"Listen, there's…something…a reason." Booth considered his options. Divulging his vampire nature in a diner was incredibly ill-advised. Plus, admitting to being something the doctor would probably call fictional would be a one-way ticket to medical leave, sans gun or FBI privileges, neither of which he particularly wanted to part with right now.

"What if someone has a secret that will totally change the way that people think about them? I mean, a big one. A life-changing one."

"Like…being gay," said Sweets with obvious confusion. "I would never have gues-"

"No. Wait," Booth's eyebrows worked furiously. "No, no," he said vehemently. "Not that. I mean, even bigger. Something that would challenge how the person was viewed by all of his-or her," he quickly added, "friends and family. Maybe their whole perception of the world."

Booth watched Sweets turn his question over until he jutted his distressingly hairless chin back at the FBI agent.

"If this secret is as big as you describe, you'd need to divulge it in a way that plays to the listener's personality. So if I were telling Dr. Brennan something, I might couch it in terms of science, risk and reward, history. Use concrete things she can take refuge in if she can't accept it all right then." He paused and Booth nodded, so Sweets continued. "Someone like Angela might do better with a humanist approach, emphasizing the social or personal reasons you had. Hodgins…" He cocked his head and shrugged. "Well, just consider your options."

"Okay, great, thanks Sweets," Booth tried to brush the doctor off, but Sweets kept going, deliberately oblivious to the brush-off.

"And…" he started cautiously, "in these types of situations, it's best to examine why you had to keep it secret in the first place."

Booth began to retort, "It was a life and death decision-"

Dr. Sweets put out his hands and splayed his fingers. "I'm sure, you know, that there are good reasons. We are in the FBI after all." He took a moment to smirk, then let the smile drain away as Booth's face remained slackly frustrated.

"Booth, these are people with whom you've entrusted your life and, in turn, you've been their friend and protector. When they learn you've kept something from them for this long, they're going to experience a range of emotions. Doubt in other things you've shared, doubt in the depth of your relationship with them, a re-examining of everything you've done together. You're dropping an emotional bomb and you're going to expect some debris to fly out of the friendship, so to speak."

Booth dropped his head to the side and his hand darted out for a grease-sodden fry. This conversation had become aggravating and worrying. Sweets picked up on this and quickened his analysis.

"Bottom line is this: you need to reassure them that in spite of this secret, you're still going to be there for them and be their friend."

"And if I can't," said Booth with a frown. "What if…" He found it hard to fix a thought in place. It was very likely that no one would understand what he truly was and that he'd, once again, have to start over somewhere else.

Sweets interjected through his thoughts, "Then trust them with the truth. They-we," he corrected slightly, "We have seen so much together and done so much together. Trust us to use our better judgment and, most importantly, to support you. If this really life-and-death, then we're all going to do everything in our power to make sure you come out alive. We're a team."

A team, right. He'd had so many over the centuries and, until this moment, never considered how frail and utterly…human his current companions were. Though he pictured a certain blonde's glowering, all-to-human face beginning a rant, he mentally appeased her. No one here had combat training besides him, whereas by the end, even the lamest member of that gang could hold his own against a heavily armed demon. He doubted that that fresh-faced doctor in front of him could handle a raging pre-teen with an attitude problem, let alone a snarling vampire. Divulging the truth would put them in danger from forces wildly outside their sphere of understanding, but the alternative was an unexpected mystical attack that, if they weren't all killed, would cripple most of them. Keeping them safe through information was the best route here.

"Annnd you weren't listening to me." The young man waved a hand in front of the agent's brooding face, then sighed. Sweets hopped off the stool and grabbed a sheepish handful of fries. "Anyway, my door is open as usual. If you decide to take advantage, drop in whenever. Or don't." He'd returned to a slightly teenage stoop in his shoulders. Booth swiveled in his chair and half-called to the retreating figure, "What, you don't want to know?"

Sweets shrugged. "If you needed me to know, you'd tell me. And really, I'm not the first person who should know. You owe her that much." He strode out before Booth could reply, the jangle of the door's bell the punctuation to their visit.

Booth rubbed his temple and returned his attention to the slimy burger. The unspeakable greasy fluid had seeped into the bun, causing the tomato to sloppily emerge when he lifted the slightly cold, flacid meal to his face. He took a careful bite and chewed the grey gristle thoughtfully.

Eating. He really liked eating. Even something like this provided a level of sensory stimulation that was amazingly unlike feeding. Here, there was a ritual of cooking, presentation, a variety of tastes from amazing steaks to, well, a tepid diner burger. You were hungry, you ate, and then you were full. You could eat a different thing every meal just for the hell of it. It was really sort of miraculous when you got down to it.

But feeding was so different. It was this powerful urge that you needed to handle before it gnawed away at your sanity, followed by this intense burst of pleasure, and a feeling of relief. It wasn't enjoyable so much as necessary, like…scratching an itch or, he pondered, peeing. He'd never really compared taking a leak with drinking someone's blood and, looking at the rest of his meal, he realized why. With a groan, he pushed away the now-unpalatable fare and left a bundle of singles as his tip.


	4. Chapter 4

Dusk crept up on Booth, who returned home long enough to ditch his car and slip his humanity-gifting ring into its box under the bed. The action shot those terrible, necessary pangs through his body, which he rapidly quelled with the supply of…he checked the label on the latest delivery…pig's blood that he kept for the rare occasions when he needed to vamp out. A few minutes later, he headed out and slipped through the street. The cemetery was far enough from his home that it would take a few hours, but he couldn't risk anyone seeing his car anywhere but home. So he threw himself across town, flashing by the sparse passersby, who commented to their companions about the unusual chill in this fall air.

With one hand on the fence he hurtled himself into the graveyard, then slowed as he walked across the field of the dead. It was somehow more uncomfortable now than before, every step a reminder of his similarity to the silent rotting dust beneath his shoes. Quietly, he trod across the dimly-lit grounds towards the billowing tent. He tried to be aware of his shadow in the moonlight or his footfalls on the gravestones, but really no one was around to care that someone dressed in black was skulking his way across a relatively average cemetery.

Booth approached the tent with caution. The required Jeffersonian guard nodded off jerkily at his usually unnecessary post. After all, who would come to disturb a block of concrete at the bottom of a pit? Booth gently swung his fist towards the back of the man's skull, knocking him unconscious as delicately as possible before arranging the limp body on the ground. If he were lucky, the guard would think that he just fell off his chair during an extremely exciting dream. He wished for a moment for some sort of mind-control magic before shrugging, opening the tent, and tossing himself into the grave.

Booth crouched tightly on the concrete and ran his fingers over the sigil. It was surprisingly smooth, almost glassy in a way that suggested it originated with a blast of heat instead of a sculptor's chisel. Could this have been laser-etched? Probably not, if it were as old as he suspected. Likely some sort of demon fire, making this a truly rare piece; they weren't really known for being craftsmen. Still, it wasn't warded or enchanted that he could feel. It was just a very old piece of concrete.

He puzzled for a moment. Someone had inexplicably taken the time to drag a piece of several hundred year old concrete across the ocean, only to throw it into the bottom of a hole in a mediocre cemetery. No, that made the least sense of anything he'd encountered in this case so far. He kept searching. As his hands moved across the surface, he concentrated, extending his consciousness downward. Was someone underneath there? However many inches of concrete and earth beneath him would mask even the strongest of signals. Plus, he'd never been much good at that whole subtle sensing thing. He left that to the witches.

His nails caught a tiny crack along the base of the carving. He carefully followed it to the edge. The whole sigil vibrated slightly, making him quickly withdraw his hand. Okay, so it wasn't a single solid piece. There was about a two by two inlay set into a larger concrete frame that had been aged to mask the removable segment. But why would anyone take the time to conceal something that would be sitting under six feet of dirt? He shook his head, then caught a scent on the wind that drew his fangs from his gums.

Booth flipped himself easily onto the ground above the grave and pushed the tent flaps open. Outside, a figure moved lightly from tree to tree at the edge of the site, then appeared in front of him in a fluid swirl of fabric , one pale brown hand catching her as she landed.

"Ahh, the famous Angelus. I had always hoped you would call on me," purred a lightly-accented female voice, rising from the ground. "I was so very delighted when my secretary penciled you into my schedule tonight."

Booth twitched a little. "I don't use that name anymore, Padma."

The face of the other vampire twisted into a cruel grin. "Oh, but why not, dear Angelus? Too many bitter memories? How is the little blond girl, by the way?" She waved aside his half-retort with a bracelet-encrusted hand. "No, nevermind that. We're not here for that variety of ancient history, are we?"

Booth scowled at the still-grinning vampire. She was a cabal leader of sorts, one of the inner covens that drove foreign policy towards some deeply sinister purpose he didn't much care about. She'd made a point to visit him when he arrived in DC to assume the mantle of Seely Booth, letting him know exactly where he stood among the existing community, half welcoming committee, half enforcer. If there were anyone who would know something about a daywalker in Washington, it would be the petite weapon standing in front of him.

"And I am not Padma now, Angelus-Booth," she smirked. "No, I've sworn off Mother India for a time." She deliberately thickened her accent to inflect her homeland, then resumed her common tone. "Standing before you is Rawdha Jalali, special Middle Eastern consultant to the CIA. Padma was replaced after an unfortunate ...incident four months ago." She splayed white-tipped fingers upward and shifted in her elegantly embroidered shelwar kameez, revealing a patch of twisted skin at her wrist. Booth winced involuntarily; anything strong enough to leave a mark like that should have, well, done far more than just leave a mark. "We called it a car bombing for simplicity's sake. Anyway, I spent a bit of time hiding out in Iran, glamoured myself up a new face, and dropped into the CIA's lap while claiming refuge from a hostile regime. But again, we're not here to talk about my ancient history."

He didn't reply, studying her for a moment. She was still beautiful in that statuesque and sharpened way, though he admitted to himself that he preferred her other incarnation. This one was all harsh angles; the other had a certain...

In a flash, she was pressed against him, a fingertip teasing the side of his neck. "Unless you want to talk about me, Angelus. There was a spark once, yes," she hissed into his ear. With a flick, she raked the nail down his skin, drawing a trickle of blood. "You're not still hung up on anyone in California anymore, are you?"

He pushed her away, rubbing the wound to close it. "Not hardly. Can we please get on with this?"

She gave a fake pout and shrugged as he ushered her through the canvas tent into the pit. She arched both brows and knelt down, resting a single thoughtful finger on pursed lips. An expression of recognition was chased across her face by a careful, contemplative frown. Booth paced in spite of himself, but successfully restrained all the needling questions he was dying to ask. After a few minutes, she seemed to make an agreement with herself and answered,

"Jonathan Russell." Her voice was slightly tentative. "Yes, that's probably who it is. Well, that puts a new spin on things." Its tone drifted downward to a half-private murmur. "I wondered where he'd gotten off to."

Booth waved his arms slightly. "So that's who's buried under there? Should this mean something to me?"

She sighed heavily through her nose and gave him an upward-slanted glare. "I'm so glad to see you took my advice and acquainted yourself with the local Order." She flipped a casual hand towards the gravesite. "Jonathan Russell. One of the original of the Washington D.C. vampires. Missing for, oh, I'd say around thirty years."

Booth turned on the ball of his foot mid-stride and stared down at the hole."And...he's a daywalker?"

"Mmmhmm," she confirmed. "He enjoyed the type of power that was best brokered in the sun. You can get amazingly far by working behind the scenes but, if you enjoy being on the front page of a newspaper, it requires the ability to attend those handful of Legislative sessions that aren't in the shadow of Hell."

"Wait, he was a Congressman?"

"He was multiple Congressmen," she smirked slightly, then let her face resume its contemplation. "Russell liked to take advantage of the remarkably hereditary nature of American politics, especially in this part of the country. He'd decide it was time to die, vanish, and quickly fill his briefly-vacated seat with his supposedly hidden son or recently uncovered nephew."

Booth looked incredulous. "And people actually bought this?"

"He came over on one of the original Jamestown voyages, Angelus," she chided. "It's not like anyone back then could check back with England to see if the recently-arrived Master Russell was in fact the son of the man they'd buried a week ago. He'd present himself as a slightly bewildered but utterly charming heir, easily reintegrate himself into the town, and reassume his old position within a few months."

"But, I mean, how many times can you fool an entire city into think you're your own son?"

"Four."


	5. Chapter 5

(I've been too grumpy to write, guys. The fun part is coming. I promise!)

Booth rubbed his temples in aggravation. Vampires couldn't get headaches, but he knew that if he had his ring on, he'd feel his head pounding. "Right, so how'd he get under there?"

"Do you want the long or the short version," she sighed in return. She uncrouched and leapt out of the grave to slip out of the tent. Once outside, she settled inappropriately on top of a nearby monument, attempting to look sultry while the unhappy agent followed her.

"Short, please. I have work tomorrow."

"By the fourth time, it was a running joke that the men in this family had a thing for hiding their sons. Rumor has it that there was citywide bet as to whether the child would emerge from a far-away city or as a whore's son. So he thought it best to drop out of public eye for a bit."

"But he came back."

"Correct. Well, not quite," she caught herself. "Since this is the short version, let's say that history has recorded numerous fine southern gentlemen whose influence reverberated through the former northern colonies. He made his way back to the capital sometime in the late 1800's and was elected senator of Virginia in 1943."

"Yes, but, he's not anymore. What happened to him?" His hands made the universal signal for hurry up, please. It was not well-received by his companion, who scowled, as he put his hands down and fidgeted slightly.

"Don't you follow politics," she snapped. "This would take a lot less time if you read a newspaper occasionally."

"Hey, don't lecture me. I was too busy saving the world to track some idiotic petty bureaucrats' political careers," he roared back. He felt the demon within him rising and his face beginning to twist. Finding a small thread of self-control, he returned to normal, twisting skin back to smoothness and retracting his fangs.

"Calm yourself, Angelus," she snarled, herself , "I do this as a courtesy and will not be abused."

He didn't respond. She stared at him through narrowed eyes and finished her story. "He resigned suddenly in 1972 and appointed his "son" to fill his slot, ostensibly to get treatment for some non-specified disease. It was reported he died and was buried in a surprisingly quiet ceremony. There was a special election that confirmed the son's role and he's held one of the Virginia senate seats ever since."

"So who is this son? Russell again?"

She shook her head and looked at the sky thoughtfully. A light wind ruffled the edge of her scarf and she tucked it under herself with her scarred hand. He watched her, in spite of himself. It was so strange to be near one of his kin again. How much of him actually missed it and how much was that damned aura she liked to project?

"That was the strange part. Unlike many Orders, we prefer to keep close tabs on our members. So when Russell did not resurface, the Order politely inquired as to the elder Russell's location. But the senator was and is quite convinced that he is the natural-born son of the late Jonathan Russell. We were informed that he was raised by a single mother in Baltimore and only became aware of his lineage a few years prior to his appointment."

Booth mulled this over. It wouldn't have been the first time that mind-control was used to change the history of some hapless pawn. Hell, it was the reason that many vampires could merrily go about their business of screwing up the mortal world. That said, it was relatively uncommon for someone to generate a thrall without keeping tabs on it. Most thralls were like sports cars. They'd go for a while, but without constant maintenance, they'd blow up spectacularly. At best, the thrall would "wake up" into a life that made no sense. At worst, his mental state would collapse completely. After a few more moments of contemplation, he asked the most useful question he could conjure up.

"And?"

She rolled her eyes and hopped lightly onto the ground, turned and began to walk away. "And nothing," she called back to him. "We knew he'd been, ah, modified by Russell, but it's not really our policy to interfere with someone's grand design unless it actively counters ours."

He rushed after her and fell into step. "It didn't bother anyone that he hasn't come back?"

"A few years later, we received a handful of letters. He'd gone back to England to bide his time for a generation or two. More opportunities overseas, et cetera. So we called off the search."

Booth looked incredulous. "But they were forgeries, right? I mean, anyone could have written them."

Without breaking stride, she patted him on the cheek. "We allow people to disappear if they wish. You, of all people, should know this. It was a waste to pursue it further."

"But what about th-"

"I have no idea. It really doesn't matter anymore. Not to me at least."

They reached the edge of the cemetery. Booth didn't realize how much time they'd burned strolling down memory lane until he heard the sprinklers shoot into action outside the gates. Rawdha leaned against the wall, an unnatural fire dancing behind her dark eyes. He could feel her presence wrapping around his mind, filling his brain with the sorts of debaucheries that he'd sworn off years ago. She would be like a raging animal that he could...He shoved her out again.

"Will you stop that," he complained. "It's really impolite."

"Hah, suit yourself. It wouldn't even work if you had a reliable source of stress relief," she laughed mirthlessly. "It has been a pleasure, Angelus. You are welcome to call on me at any time." With that, she disappeared over the wall and vanished into the waning night. He grumbled to himself about the annoyances of vampiric politics and, with a great leap, ran himself through the sprinklers on his long jaunt home.

Arriving at his apartment, he stripped off his still-soggy clothing, and threw on whatever sweats he could find laying on the floor. For a moment, he was incredibly uncomfortable. Was there someone lying in wait for him after this impromptu meeting? He reached for his gun, tucked it into the waistband of his pants, though he admitted that his face and hands would be more effective against whatever was lurking in the shadows. He glanced towards his bed, where the ring was waiting to regift him with humanity, but took a moment to browse the internet before resuming his mortal life.

A few clicks of the mouse and an unnecessary number of password tries later, he let himself into the various arcane databases maintained by the Watchers. Glancing around again, he entered Rawdha's old name into a field and hit search. What came up didn't fully surprise him. She'd been pursued in India by one of the activated slayers, a young woman by the name of Amada Kurani, who was ultimately unsuccessful in her hunt. Amada had, according to the records, managed to damage her target with a now-destroyed ancient artifact found in the mountains of Nepal. However, noted the page with as much glee as could be contained in an official report, the artifact's effects were permanent.

Booth closed the webpage with a frown. Padma... Rawdha, he corrected himself, wasn't the best of all creatures, but he disliked the thought of her being destroyed. She didn't deserve that after all these years. He shook himself again and shouted, "Get out of my head dammit," but the sensation didn't fade. He took his sudden sympathy as a sign that he should replace the ring. Slipping it on brought with it a tidal wave of exhaustion, which Booth obeyed as he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Booth fidgeted with increasing impatience at the base of the raised platform that held the forensic team. Bones and the staff had already been elbow deep in god-knows-what since before he came in; his requests for an audience were met with a chorus of brush-offs due to something called an...osteopathic scannerator or whatever. Regardless of what they were doing, he got the distinct sense that he would probably be in the way. As a result, he all but ran laps around the lab, trying to burn off some of the nervous energy that he'd accumulated.

He was exhausted from his evening jaunt, but the influx of information acted like a burst of mental caffeine. His mind churned with everything his contact had divulged, but he couldn't quite link it together. Okay, if the senator was a thrall, someone must be keeping him under control. So who? And why would someone bury and then unearth a vampire of Russell's stature? There were certainly other vampires whose political interests could be served by mortal agents, which of course meant that he would have to find and interview them. He groaned internally. There was only aggravation and verbal tap-dancing that would result from getting himself into that mess.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the window into Bones' office, he let out an involuntary sigh. If hair could look tired, his would; it jutted up at strange angles that he probably should have flattened with some gel this morning. His face had taken on an almost greyish pallor that he tended to associate with his vampiric form, but in this case it was probably a side effect of getting around two hours of sleep. And even though the black suit had been unwrapped from the dry cleaner's just a few hours ago, he felt rumpled. He tried to smooth down his hair and debated wandering into Cam's section to use the corpse sink, but this awful plan was interrupted by Bones' coming over, clipboard under her arm.

"Booth, wow, you look terrible," she chided. "You really need to take better care of yourself, especially after your illness." She reached out a still-gloved hand to address his hair problem, but he swatted her away, as much to keep himself corpse-free as to minimize her concerns.

"Oh come on Bones," he almost whined, "A lost night of sleep isn't going to bring the tumor back. If that were the case, there would be a brain-lump epidemic at every frat house."

She gave him that look, the one where she managed to emit lasers from the center of those piercing blue-grey eyes, and he rapidly changed the topic. "Sooooo...any news about that symbol we found?"

Her mood visibly lightened. "Yes, I called up the antiquities department and they were very excited. Apparently, it is a sigil from a 12th century cult that supposedly died out shortly before the Reformation. They've never seen one in person and want to dig it up right away."

She frowned slightly. "Well, as soon as we get the archeological permit. Apparently, the prosecutor in the case is very insistent that nothing be disturbed beneath the body."

She cocked her head at Booth and gave him a sweet, slightly gentle smile. "Maybe if you went to talk to him, you could convince him that this is a once-in-a-lifetime scientific discovery. Use your, you know, ability to relate to the average person and exercise your persuasive skills."

He squinted at her. "Wait, did you just call me average?"

"Well, statistically," she began, and then trailed off. "No, I just meant that you have a lot more experience with..." She looked at him sheepishly. "I think you will be better at this than I would be." Her ability to save the conversation degenerated rapidly before him.

He suppressed an eye roll and followed her into her office, flopping on the brown leather couch and putting his feet up on the glass coffee table. He had half a mind to grab the nearby pillow and tuck it under his head for a quick nap, but doubted that he'd be allowed that much peace in the lab's chaos. Instead, he grabbed one of the carved wooden spheres she left under the lamp and began to roll it back and forth across his hands. "So, any news about Mr. Floppy up there?"

"Booth," she said with annoyance, "that is an inappropriate title for Judge Henderson. And yes, I'll have you know that we have completed our preliminary analysis of the body." She thumbed through the carefully-lined pages clamped to the board. "We recovered a bullet from the deceased, but it is obviously not the cause of death." Her face registered a combination of disdain and superiority. "Whomever performed the original autopsy did a clearly inferior job, even for someone with limited training."

"Bones, again with the insults?"

She looked appropriately chastened and ran her finger along a few lines of text. "Yes, well, based on our findings, it seems likely that the cause of death was exsanguination. Of course, we will need to verify these results, but the prosecutor was right to suspect that something was amiss."

However, Booth had stopped listening shortly after the word "exsanguination". That could mean only two things: either a failed attempt to sire another vampire or a feeding frenzy. Neither bode well for the continuing investigation. He was going to need to take Bones' advice and visit the prosecutor, albeit with a very different goal in mind. Tossing the sphere back on the table, he got to his feet and readjusted his tie.

"Right, I'll get to the prosecutor while you finish your analysis."

"Wait, no, I want to come with you."

He sagged. "But I thought you said that I would be able to handle this better because of my average mind."

"He might also be more convinced if I could impress upon him the full scope of what we have found." She stood up and began stripping off her protective blue jumpsuit. "I will be ready in a few minutes."

Booth excused himself to the main body of the lab, frustrated that his mission was now complicated by the presence of his partner. Usually, he'd be happy to-

"Booth, have I got a story for you." Dr. Hodgins sidled up to the agent with a massive grin plastered across his bearded face. His usual lab-induced pastiness carried a flush of excitement and he was nearly vibrating with contained glee. Booth checked a sigh and attempted to look interested.

"Mmm," he managed.

"You know that sigil you found? Well, I had Angela do some digging through the data-"

"Yeah, something about a 12th century cult," said Booth, cutting him off. "Bones mentioned that the Jeffersonian antiquated guys or something were excited about it?"

"Hah, right," said Hodgins with a lip-curling smirk. "If by cult you mean an ancient order dedicated to the black arts." He grabbed a slightly-wrinkled printout from the depths of his coat pocket. He smoothed it out ineffectively, then waved it back and forth before Booth while continuing.

"Take a look. It's the same sign, right? But look at the context," he said with a flourish, obviously expecting a thrilled interjection from Booth.

The agent took the paper, rotated it slightly, then peered warily through one eye. The whole thing was a mess of grey smudges and half-shaded figures that, based on their composition and presentation, could have been angels, demons, or stockbrokers. He tried to make out some sort of symbology, but settled on, "It looks like the cover of a Zepplin album I once owned back in college."

Unlike Bones, Hodgins seemed to appreciate his glib ignorance as he retrieved the paper from Booth's hand. "Close enough. It's a carving from a mausoleum in England supposedly frequented by generations of scholars bent on exploring the mysteries of the universe. They were supposed to know how to perform magic, summon demons, and raise the dead."

Booth struggled to maintain his blithely ignorant distance from the discussion, feigning that puppy-dog bewilderment that had gotten him out of far too many tight spots. This supposed order was sounding more and more like the very troublesome group that had made his life alternately Hell and Heaven; by equal measures towards the end, come to think of it. Luckily, the doctor wasn't stopping to let him have any sort of revelation.

"And get this: they called this the sigil of the 'Lux Ambulans'. The day walker. Awesome, right?"

Centuries of practice let him continue to feign confusion. "It's...Satan?"

Hodgins slapped the agent's stomach playfully. "Of course not. It's a symbol for a vampire that's able to live in the sunlight. These guys were apparently researching ways to make them. Or stop them. The carvings aren't that clear," he said with mournful eagerness, if such a thing was possible.

Panic began to seep into Booth's pores. This was getting far too familiar, far too fast. He would have to act ahead of schedule if this sort of revelation kept up, but divulging himself to Hodgins first would be a complete and utter disaster. Thank god for the sweet-smelling presence of Angela, who nestled herself between the two men. She took a pink-tipped finger and touched it to Hodgins' lips.

"Sweetie, what did I tell you? No one is going to believe anything you say if you get on the information superhighway and immediately take a hard right at 'vampire'." She smiled up at Booth, her coral-rimmed lips saving him from making an absolute fool out of himself. "Sorry, Seely. You know how he gets. Like a kid with a magic kit and a cape."

She wrapped a long, floral-draped arm around her husband and steered him away from Booth. "Now if you'll excuse us, I'm going to yet again explain to him that spouting conspiracy theories doesn't actually help solve cases." Hodgins tossed a huge grin over her shoulder and mouthed the word "vampires" with a covert thumbs up.

Watching the loving pair retreat, Booth wondered how much of a hit their relationship would take when he essentially confirmed everything that the scientist had been crowing about. And with that uneasy thought, he went back to wait for Bones.


	7. Chapter 7

The imposing columns of the federal courthouse loomed over the two as they jogged up the white granite steps towards their meeting with the prosecutor. Booth had spent most of the meeting attempting to pry information about the lawyer out of the FBI's database but had met with limited luck. The guy, Edward Leary, seemed incredibly boring by all accounts. He'd come from a slightly better than average second-tier college, done reasonably well in his time as a city lawyer, then made a few higher profile contacts in the government, booting him up the food chain. No wife, no children, a small family out of southern New Jersey, and really an unremarkable life spent flopping about in the middle of society. It was on that point that Bones and Booth began to disagree.

With heels clipping up the stairs, one hand on the wrought iron banister, Bones argued her point. "It is clearly the case that he is looking for an angle with which to advance his career. Providing him with this sort of opportunity will make him look more attractive."

"Yeah, but Bones," he said, pulling open one brass-bound door as they reached the upper landing, "his higher-ups don't care about relics in graveyards. They care about the big stuff: high-profile mobsters tossed in jail, terrorist rings being cracked, and making the evening news by putting away the bad guys."

"Well that is very short sighted," she complained. "Science will always last longer than trivial history."

Inside the courthouse, a pair of slightly portly officers confronted pair as Booth flipped open his badge. They wanded Booth first, then up Bones' body with what Booth perceived to be a bit too much gusto. He had to restrain himself from demanding that one of them knock it off as he ran the metal detector one too many times across the young woman's chest. She seemed to take no notice, though, and happily swung her jacket about in an effort to give them more access. Meanwhile, Booth had to catalog every beep and warning as the other cop commented on his numerous firearms, regardless of how much he protested that yes, he was armed because that was his job.

They eventually passed through the blinking gates of security and started down the green-grey marble halls, stopping periodically to ask where Prosecutor Leary had stashed himself. A few twists and turns later, they found themselves sealed behind the brushed steel doors of the elevator up to his office. Booth tilted his head up, watching the numbers light up in succession, and felt it necessary to warn her, "Just let me do most of the talking, okay? Like we said."

She also craned her neck upward. "Yes, of course," she said, a bit distantly. Was she regretting her commentary or planning out her best method of approach? He sort of hoped the latter. She tended to do better when she had something worked out. On the fly was definitely not Bones' forte.

The stepped onto the fifth floor and glanced around for some sort of signage. Booth wrinkled his nose and then launched into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. There was something horrifyingly rank about the air around them. It was like the worst subway toilet in all history with a side of chemical warfare for extra kick. He hacked and wheezed, nearly doubling over from the strain. He grabbed both knees and made an effort to clear his lungs without tipping over.

"Booth, are you okay," Bones queried, gesturing him towards a carven chair that probably had seen a hundred years of the corrupt legal system pass by.

"Yeah, just...something," he looked at her strangely. "Bones, do you smell something? I mean, really foul," he tested.

She gave a quick sniff and dramatically flared her pale nostrils as the janitor rolled his bucket down the hall. "Other than the use of chemicals far too harsh for these surfaces, nothing seems out of the ordinary."

Booth tried again. "I mean, it doesn't smell like...cat pee? Farts? Anything?" He then remembered the sorts of situations into which she regularly trod. Half of her job was spent mingling with bloated bodies that had disgorged a load of bacteria and decaying mess onto her shoes. Something like this probably wouldn't reach her consciousness.

She shrugged and then an argument lit her eyes. "You know, Booth. Sensory hallucinations are not uncommon in people with recurr-"

"Bones. For the last time. I don't have a brain tumor. Maybe I can smell it because your nose receptors have all died in protest of your work," he snarked slightly. He took a moment to collect himself. The stench was less overpowering, in part because he was adapting and in part because he was consciously working to block it out.

She shot him a dagger-filled glance as they began to walk forward. They turned a corner and Bones flagged down a nearby janitor to get directions to the prosecutor's office. She need not have done so, regardless of her desire to practice her Spanish, because Booth suddenly knew where they were going. He knew because he could feel a wave of energy rolling towards him. It pulsed down the corridor, saturating everything from the scuffed linoleum floor at his feet to the curving light fixtures dangling above his head. Demon stench and demon magic, palpable now to even his relatively dull senses, was emanating from what was likely the prosecutor's office in front of them.

His vampiricly-enhanced perception was not quashed enough to completely miss the presence of this level of black magic. However, with the signet on, his human senses apparently translated what he felt into an unpleasant smell. Now that he was consciously blocking the awful scent, which had added another layer of repulsiveness, he could feel the actual cause. Things had just become even more complicated.

He walked forward towards the office, uncomfortably twisting the ring on his left hand. If he took it off, he'd have better luck with whatever was behind that door, but there was no telling what he might run into on the way. If it was a demon, it might have warded the door against vampires. Booth might slip by unharmed as a human, but there was no guarantee. If this guy was linked to a daywalker, he probably had the knowledge of how to protect himself against all sorts of nasty creatures.

Bones was suddenly beside him. "So, his office is right-" and she watched him, almost trancelike, twist the doorknob and walk in.

An incredibly dull-looking, book-filled room opened before them. The only window, caked with decades of D.C. smog and grime, was mostly obscured by stacks of folders. A few metal-backed chairs were scattered across the threadbare faux-Persian rug and the desk looked like it had been dragged out of a high school dumpster. Behind it sat a middle-aged man, trim with just a hint of grey in his chestnut-colored hair. His face was growing a vaguely pink flush as he stood up and gesticulated with annoyance towards his visitors.

Booth quickly collected himself. "Knock, knock," he said sardonically. "Sorry to interrupt. We wanted to get a hold of you before you vanished off to court."

The two men stared at each other. Booth appraised him fully. There, yes, a hint of silver on his wrist that was probably a form of talisman. The prosecutor's greenish eyes seemed slightly too wide for his face and his skin seemed covered in a slight sheen, as if he'd been buttered regularly. Definitely working with demons. For his part, Mr. Leary was just that, looking slightly askance at the two of them as Bones began her introduction.

"My name is Temperance Brennan. I'm the chief forensic-"

"I know who you are, Dr. Brennan," he said. His voice was like rocks crunching under tire treads. "I'm just trying to figure out why you're standing in front of me without holding a report about the judge in your hands."

"Hey, watch it," chided Booth. "Her work ethic is probably a hundred times better than yours. These things take time." He spun one of the chairs on its leg, turned it backwards, and straddled across it. He leaned his head on one hand and tried to act bored. He found that seeming completely uninterested tended to throw people off enough for him to maintain decent control of a situation with absolutely minimum effort.

"And you are," gestured the prosecutor with one fleshy palm.

"Agent Seely Booth. FBI. I've been assigned to this case and to Dr. Brennan."

"I see," said the man evenly.

"Listen, I know that this case is a huge deal, but there's more at stake here. There's an amazingly rare relic at the bottom of the grave." As he continued his explanation of the historical importance of the concrete, part of him was boggling at the whole thing. Here he was, feigning interest in archeology to a man who was working with demons, while sitting in a room probably covered in things that could fry his vampire self in seconds.

Half way through Booth's recounting of the history of the religious cult and the significance of the find, the prosecutor took note of the ring on Booth's hand. He stared at it, then at Booth, then back at the ring. The prosecutor's skin tone went a few shades paler, then flushed. His eyes took on a sudden glint of recognition. "Shit," thought Booth. He'd gotten so used to people not knowing about the occult that he didn't think to conceal the massive magical flag he was wearing. Booth tucked his hand into his pocket self-consciously and concluded his monologue, wanting nothing more than to flee now that his cover was blown.

"All we ask is for another 24 hours to excavate it. Then, you can have your site," he said with agitation. He just had to buy enough time to figure out what was underneath the sigil and how to neutralize it.

"Yes, yes, of course." The man's voice was suddenly smooth and placating. "I quite understand. Please complete your survey and schedule the excavation at your leisure." He smiled with genteel patience, showing a bit of his ragged teeth. "However, if you'll indulge me?"

Bones looked almost ecstatic at the prosecutor's sudden change of heart. Booth was worried that she'd start bouncing for joy. "Yes, of course."

"Would you permit me to be there when you bring up the stone? I certainly am curious to be part of history."

Booth gritted his teeth as Bones answered with exuberant surprise, "We would be happy to have you there," she said breathlessly.

"Wonderful," the prosecutor said, reaching out to shake Bones' hand. Booth leapt up from his chair and reflexively swatted her arm away as she stretched it out.

"Booth," she said with aggravation.

"Sorry Bones I...thought I saw him pick his nose." Of all the excuses to select, that was one of the worst, he berated himself.

The prosecutor chuckled indulgently. "And one can't be too careful nowadays with all the germs floating about." He bowed slightly. "Thank you for your visit Dr. Brennan. Though," and he paused thoughtfully. "Would you permit me to speak with Agent Booth alone?"

Even in her excited state, Bones looks a little hesitant. Booth nodded towards her. "Yeah, go on Bones. I'll be out in a second." She retreated through the door and the two men were alone.

The prosecutor's demeanor changed completely, as did the whole room. It took on a profoundly unpleasant miasma that oozed out of every surface. Long shadows cast by absolutely nothing appeared on the walls and a dim red glow emanated from the man in front of him. Booth was unimpressed with the theatrics, but didn't say anything. He was at a disadvantage right now and antagonizing his host would lead to things he didn't feel like dealing with.

"And I trust you will not interfere, daywalker," said the man with disdain.

"With what, your excavation of William Russell," Booth retorted, before catching himself.

The prosecutor dodged the question. "After all, you cowards tend to slouch along history's dregs, pitifully clinging to your lost humanity. I doubt you remember what it is like to be a vampire, though I'm guessing whomever you were before you put on that ring was profoundly uninteresting." He stared at Booth through half-lidded eyes, derision-laden eyes. "What were you? Some mistake made during an especially passionate bout of rutting?"

Booth found the silver lining. This man had no idea who Booth was, which meant that he didn't really have any magic of his own. Even the most incompetent back-alley wizard could see through the slight glamour that let Booth walk around unrecognized. The prosecutor was merely a pawn whose abilities were probably limited to looking scary and executing the whims of someone much more impressive than he. Everything wasn't as screwed as Booth had feared, but he deflected the question instead of lying.

"If you dislike daywalkers so much, why are you trying to dig one up? You could just, I don't know, kill me here and take whatever you needed." Booth tried to pry some more information loose, but was unsuccessful.

The prosecutor smirked. "Ah, Agent Booth. So uncreative. Think of all the uses for an ancient vampire who has been starving underground for a few decades. But don't think too hard," the man mockingly cautioned. "It's likely that this whole thing will get, ah, messy."

"Wait, you're going to unbury a vampire in front of a few dozen scientists and technicians," said Booth incredulously. He bit his tongue to avoid asking Mr. Leary just how stupid he was.

The shadows shifted around the prosecutor. "Let's just say that the whole graveyard will be the scene of an unfortunate accident right around the time that the stone is ready to be removed. Some leftover ordinance from the Civil War. A pocket of gas. Quite tragic."

Booth's face went red with rage, but the prosecutor gave another half-smile and a raise of his shoulders. "Or you try to keep that pretty doctor away long enough for me to execute my plan with minimal bloodshed. Either way, the daywalker is mine."

"You know I'm going to stop you," growled Booth.

"Hah, no," mocked the prosecutor. "I sincerely doubt that you can. Besides, there are any number of individuals who would be all to happy to remove one more vampire from the world," His smile was broad and certain. "And with you staked, who will protect your partner?"

Booth seethed, but made no reply. There was no use in tipping his hand right here. Not without knowing who was pulling the strings.

The room returned to normal and the prosecutor rose. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have court in fifteen minutes and I must prepare. Good day, Agent Booth."

Booth stepped out into the corridor, where Bones began to pepper him with information. The dig would get set up tomorrow and they'd hopefully have the stone removed in the next few days. The prosecutor had been so helpful, hadn't he? A tribute to Booth's amazing negotiation, she crowed, linking her arm around his elbow.

Booth more or less tuned her out as he replayed the conversation with the prosecutor in his head. His options were awful. Say nothing and watch the lab get killed. Stall for time and try to handle it all himself. Try to involve other vampires, most of whom would rather see him killed. Or, Booth decided, finally do what he'd been putting off for so long: get his friends to understand who he really was so they could help him, just as they had on so many other cases. His resolve hardened. It...was time.


	8. Chapter 8

Booth suggested an early dinner, maybe something outside in the Jeffersonian's many gardens to take advantage of the last bits of warm weather as the sun set. Her face, which had grown drawn and contemplative, lit up. She scurried off at his suggestion to figure out some food while he sprinted back to his office.

He flung himself up the stairs into his private room, barely acknowledging the bevy of agents and staff who absently greeted him. Swinging himself into the room, he almost slammed the clattering wooden door shut and then tightly pulled down the canvas shade to obscure him from the rest of the floor. He bent down and began to shuffle through his otherwise neatly-organized desk, tossing a few handfuls of case files onto the linoleum before finding his goal: a locked green safety deposit box, bolted to the bottom drawer. He anxiously fumbled with his keychain and turned the lock, which stuck with disuse before finally clicking open. Inside, a plump red-filled plastic bag oscillated slightly as he jostled it, then gingerly took it out and slid it into his pocket. With a moment's reflection, he found a paper sack somewhere on the windowsill, brushed off the dust, and gently put the bag inside it. Okay, sure, now it looked less like a crappy gift he forgot to wrap and more like some sort of lunch. Which, of course, it was.

Back at the Jeffersonian, Bones had proudly displayed her idea of an appropriate picnic. It was a veritable cavalcade of local restaurant fare, from burgers across the street to a smattering of festively-colored sushi that Booth would need an oceanographer to decipher. He smiled and shook his head, then gestured her over to the gazebo, where they spread out the food across the benches and ate in silence. He kept flicking his head up, trying to match the shadows of the sun with the shade provided by the gazebo. Once he was convinced that he'd be able to stay more or less in the dark, he took a deep breath and turned to his partner.

"Bones," he started, then stopped, uncertain. "I need to," he caught himself, then restarted. "What if..." he trailed off. She looked at him, finished chewing a scallion pancake, and pursed her lips with annoyance.

"Booth, you know I do not enjoy hypotheticals."

"Right, right." Oh boy. "Bones, you know that the FBI keeps secrets from everyone, even its own agents. And it's as much for tactical advantage as it is to protect most of the people involved."

"Yes," she chimed in vigorously. "I am familiar with top-secret clearance. I have it in every major institution in the United States, as well as-"

He cut her off. "Wait, you have higher clearance than me," then suppressed the question to stay on target. His voice went low and thoughtful. "For as long as I've known you, I've had to keep one of these secrets. A huge one. I thought that by leaving all of you out, I could shield you from the blowback, but I can't anymore. It's too dangerous."

She caught his eyes with a hesitant face, then nodded slowly. "Okay." She seemed to comprehend that this secret wasn't kept with malice, a nice side effect from years in the government, he supposed.

Now, a deep breath. "I'm not Seeley Booth. The man by that name was a sniper I was assigned to guard in Somalia seven years ago. As he lay dying, he gave me permission to take over his life in the States so that his fam-Parker and Rebecca," he stumbled, "would be cared for and protected."

To his surprise, she burst out into peals of laughter, then stood up and glanced around. He rose with her and scanned the beds of late-blooming flowers for whatever she was targeting. Nothing emerged from behind the foliage, so he turned his face to his still seeking partner. She responded to his unasked question.

"This must be one of those TV shows in which a wild prank is played on a friend. I am searching for the camera crew to convince them that I am not in the least bit fooled," she exclaimed with glee. "You should have chosen something less outlandish."

He took her hand and, with more force than he had intended, pulled her back to sitting. He glared at her intently. "Bones," and then he restarted. "Temperance. I have never been more serious in my life. I...everything about him is true, but I am not him."

Her face was a flickering mask of shock and confusion. With downcast eyes she looked at the hand gripping her wrist, then back up at him. She didn't draw away, though he noticed that she was trembling slightly. He took her silence as a cue to continue.

"Seeley Booth was an amazing shot, like all the records say. He had this knack for getting places he shouldn't be, hiding in plain sight, and taking out the high-profile targets, but there had been a few scares. The guys upstairs got nervous and sent me to look out for him. We spent a lot of time travelling to hellhole after hellhole, getting to know each other. He told me a lot about his family. Jared, Rebecca, Parker, they were his life. And one day, when his luck ran out, he told me to take care of them. He knew I would. He knew I was a protector."

She gaped at him, then curled her face into a frown and shuddered a little. "It...with plastic surgery and training, you could take on the appearance and life of someone else," she rationalized. "If there were terrorists involved and national safety, the FBI could employ these methods to ensure that your-his family members were okay." She began babbling about the various ways to cover someone's identity. Booth remembered Sweet's advice and let her get herself in a plausible place, covering her uncertainty with layers of science. He looked past her. The sun was setting. They were running out of time.

Finally, she stopped talking and gazed at him thoughtfully. "I believe you," she said with shaking conviction. "So, who are you, Agent," she paused, then repeated, "Agent."

"My name is...was Liam, but I've taken other names throughout my life. Now, though, my name is Angel and I am a vampire."

Whatever veneer of calmness she had managed to maintain through this session collapsed with the final revelation. The doctor jerked away and bolted upright to standing, staring down at him lividly. Both hands balled up into enraged fists and she looked as if she might take a swing at him. Her breath came in ragged gasps and she hissed her words through clenched teeth.

"Is this a joke to you? You tell me the person I knew as my partner is actually a fake. You lied to me and I trusted you. I. Trusted. You," she shouted. "And the best excuse you can come up with is that you are some," she searched furiously for the words, "mythical creature designed to explain away disease and death. At least when my father disappeared from my life and lied, he had a good reason."

He did not stand up. None of this was unexpected, but he hadn't actually planned what to do when he reached this point. "Bones, listen."

"Don't call me that," she said. Tears had begun to form at the edges of her eyes. "That is a term used by my friends and I do not know who you are." He knew that she was probably seconds from walking off, so he made one of his final plays.

"I am a vampire, Bo-Dr. Brennan. I need to you to believe that for your own safety." He stood up next to her, blocking her exit. She shrank back, but made no move to stop him. He felt his heart racing, but its frantic pulse disappeared as he slipped off the ring. Gritting his teeth together, he took off his jacket, flinging it to the side. Then, rolled up his left shirt sleeve, baring his pale arm. With a single unnecessary breath, he thrust his exposed skin into the rays of the setting sun.

He'd always hoped that this would smell like cooking meat. It was, after all, his flesh that was being roasted by the sun. Wasn't that steak? Instead, the scent of burning garbage wafted off of his now-flaming arm, an unpleasant sensation that was not nearly as compelling as the excruciating pain coursing from his limb. He watched it blaze, almost enthralled by the complete destruction that the sun was wreaking upon him, then yanked himself hand back into the safety of the gazebo.

"Booth," cried Brennan in spite of herself. She looked with horror at the melting flesh dripping off of the charred bones of his arm.

"Oh..my..." she sputtered. "How..." She was panicking now. This was too much for her to handle, he saw, but he had to keep going, if only to keep the damaged arm from crumbling away.

She looked up at him in flailing despair as he reached over and tore apart his paper bag with his remaining hand. The pouch of blood rolled out onto the bench. He grabbed it, jutted his fangs out of his mouth, and pierced the plastic surface. This was the good stuff, he almost moaned. Actual human blood, kept secretly in his office for emergencies. So much better than whatever animals he subsisted on usually, then tried to repress those thoughts. He could feel himself beginning to vamp out, his face taking on the mask of rage as the pain from his ruined arm stripped away his self-control.

He turned back to his partner, who was gripping the support poles of the gazebo with white knuckles. She was hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling invitingly as she fell apart before him. He could taste her fear and feel her heart slamming itself against her ribcage. Again, he beat back his instincts, instead turning his attention to healing his arm. With blood-renewed strength, he willed his bones to mend and his skin to grow back. In a few moments, he flexed his knuckles experimentally. It would take some breaking in to get them back to full function, but they would do for now.

Through his snarling vampire face, with fangs bared and seething eyes, he leveled his gaze at his partner. "Now do you believe me, Temperance?" he growled.

She shrieked and lunged at him, but he was simply faster and stronger in ways she could not imagine. Catching her around her waist, he wrestled her onto the bench. Her desperate fighting brought the beast out further, which incensed him more. 'Not now', he screamed to himself. 'Control this, for the sake of your partner and friend.' He barely contained himself as he pinned her arms down with one hand, then slipped the daywalker ring back on the other.

His body collapsed back to normal and a new burst of pain erupted from his healing arm. He released her and stumbled back as she lay stunned next to him. Tears streamed down her face and she found words. "This...has to be a dream," she said hoarsely. "That...that is..." Sobs broke down the rest of her sentence. She scratched at the splintered wooden floor, grasping for her sanity.

Booth sat against the bench, drew up his knees and covered his face with his hands. His burnt arm throbbed uncomfortably, but it was all he could think of to convince her. He rubbed his temples, then looked down at her with sorrow and pity.

"It's not a dream. I'm a vampire. I live as a human. And I need your help."


End file.
